


don't go where i can't follow

by bokutoma



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Denial of Feelings, Feelings Realization, Felix Hugo Fraldarius Being an Asshole, Felix Hugo Fraldarius is Bad at Feelings, First Kiss, Heavy Angst, M/M, The Gay Agenda, felix is apeshit as per usual, sylvain is off his shit, sylvain jose gautier being the lovable piece of shit he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-13 21:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20589572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: felix is alright on his own. he doesn't need anyone, least of all sylvain.now if only he could believe that





	1. no

There is something to be said about the kiss of a blade rather than a lover.

For one, it's reliable - if Felix loses his concentration, it will meet him where it knows best, where it hurts. He knows what lovers are like, clandestine in the moonlight, fickle by day. There is no room in his life for someone who will not show the same focus he does, the same solemn, silent commitment he's given for years.

There is almost not enough room for Sylvain.

A blade will listen if one shows it what to do; it will not mock a student, only chastise them, and even then, it will still do as asked. Felix cannot remember the last time he seriously asked something of anyone, but he knows the last time someone listened was far before that.

Perhaps that's unfair, because the professor has been listening since the day she arrived, even before she chose the Lions (blue has always been a good color for the melancholy children of Faerghus). Still, she's an oddity, and he never asked anything of her, so he's not certain that counts. Dimitri hasn't heard anyone but himself and those miserable voices since Duscur, and even Ingrid is too preoccupied with Glenn to remember his living counterpart.

Sylvain has never been the type to follow. Perhaps Felix would have been content to let his friend lead him once, but he's no longer welcome. The Gautier heir is throwing a pity party for one with wine and women (but even that he might have endured, if his best friend weren't so ridiculously stupid).

But as he spars, as he tears his way through the staff and students of Garreg Mach, he knows that everything else is negligible when compared to one thing.

Sylvain is good with a lance. It's higher praise than anything Felix would actually dare say aloud, but he is nothing when compared to the Fraldarius heir and his sword. It's why he finds victory, wood cracking across his friend's forearm with strength that's sure to leave a welt.

"_Shit,_" Sylvain hisses, dropping his training lance, and Felix almost smiles. "That _hurt, _you motherfucker."

"If you were better, you could pay me back."

Yes, Felix likes the sword more than any lover could possibly appeal to him, and that's because it says everything he can't.

"Maybe if you got out more, you wouldn't be such an ass," Sylvain mutters, and Felix decides that the yelp the other makes when he targets the back of his knee is an additional bonus.

Professor Byleth narrows her eyes at him, the closest she really gets to chastisement, but he's feeling liberated now, and even her disapproval can't dampen his mood. Sylvain snickers, and it's the kind of laugh Felix never hears unless the lordling is in the mood to be cruel, so be turns (he can't resist).

There's a girl there. She's a Blue Lion too, he thinks, but not in the top class, so he can't really be bothered to remember, and she's peeking from behind a pillar with such single-minded intensity that she almost reminds him of the stalker Sylvain had at the beginning of the year - the combined glares of both the professor and himself had been enough to thwart her, fortunately, but Felix had little doubt he would have resorted to violence, if necessary.

"Stop ogling her," he spat instead of asking. "I'm not done with you."

The wink Sylvain shot him was lascivious, downright _filthy, _but the cruel twist of his mouth hadn't undone itself.

"It's pathetic, how much some people want what they don't deserve, right?" he says, eyes cutting to the girl with a look so derisive Felix almost can't believe it.

He knows what Sylvain wants him to say, what he might have said if they still understood each other. Perhaps this is something like a peace offering, but he knows better than to assume his friend reads that much into their relationship. He's become far too self-absorbed to tell that anything has changed.

"Glad to see you're doing some self-reflection," he says instead, grating and harsh because that's all he knows how to be. Even if he could alter his tone, though, he doesn't think he would.

Still, there's a shadow in Sylvain's gaze that looks something close to hurt, but he blinks and it's gone. He should really know better.

"Very funny." Sylvain rolls his eyes. "You know who I was talking about."

And even though peace isn't the language Felix speaks, he knows enough to broaden the scope of his ire. "Well, I suppose that piteousness attracts even worse. Are you really surprised?"

Sylvain laughs, warm and bright and all the things Felix will never be, and there's a sort of pleasure in making the girl slink off, tail tucked between her legs.

"Can we spar now?" he asks, because he would rather die than admit anything of the sort.

If Sylvain's blows land harder this time, Felix credits himself with removing the distraction and nothing more.

* * *

It's still a month away from the end of the Ethereal Moon, and Felix is _tired. _Friendship, he's decided, is absolutely not for him.

He's made an effort for a few weeks now, because he thought Sylvain had been too; how else could he have interpreted the Gautier heir's endless pestering?

Everywhere he goes now, a gaggle of Sylvain's enchanted follow. He loses as many as he usually would, but each time, they're steadily replaced like a fungus he can't seem to burn away.

The ball, Felix has decided, is the worst thing to have ever plagued Garreg Mach.

Now, he wants to be left alone. Every moment away from Sylvain is a cherished blessing, because all he wants to talk about is who he'll take to the Goddess Tower.

("_Don't you think that's cruel, even for you?" he asks one night, though he's not certain why. "Promising forever to someone you despise?"_

_"No," Sylvain says, leaning back in the grass like nothing bothers him, and Felix hates _him.)

Even still, the boldest will not leave him in peace. Perhaps they think of him as a test they must overcome; he might have respected that were it not so inconvenient. They chase after him, pests of the highest degree, asking him for anything from advice to offers to spar.

He takes them up on the latter even if he doesn't want to look at them, because it feels too good to send them crashing to the ground. Ingrid looks at him with disappointment sometimes, but he doesn't think she has any room to talk. Either way, he wouldn't stop; he deserves some measure of retribution for all the trouble they've put him through.

"So who did you decide on?" Sylvain asks one day over a mouthful of pastry. Felix has been nibbling on his, washing it down with borderline unhealthy amounts of tea. "To take to the ball, I mean."

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you?" he asks, arching a brow in perfect disdain. "You can't seem to shut up about it, after all."

The other waves him off with a nonchalance Felix almost wishes for. "It's not news that I've got options. I've heard a lot about _you_, though." The look in his eyes is something akin to hunger, an expression more familiar on his own face. Sylvain is not solely a skirt chaser, but perhaps this is what he's passionate about. "Looks like you've got quite a few cuties chasing after you."

"They're all asking about you," Felix replies, and it comes out angrier than he intended. That happens a lot these days.

"Oh, come on, don't be mad. Statistically, _some _of them have to be using me as an excuse to talk to you. You're handsome, and you look pretty dashing with a sword, you know, not to mention you're a Crested noble."

Sylvain, Felix decides, is entirely too fucking stupid for his own good.

"Are you kidding me?" he spits out instead of saying exactly that, and when he stands up and wheels around to go home, he thinks it summarizes his feelings rather aptly.

He gets about halfway down the stairs before he hears footsteps pounding on the stone, and when he gets to the base, a hand encircles his wrist, warm and tight. He jolts, but his body doesn't betray him, and he turns in a more graceful circle than he ever could while dancing, arm coming around to snap out of the grip it had been ensnared in.

Sylvain looks apologetic, and Felix is _so tired._

"Come one, you know I was joking."

"About what?" he hisses, and he's unsure why he's so angry except that he's not, because joking or otherwise, Sylvain doesn't understand him.

Maybe he hasn't helped, but the thought hurts more than it should.

"What do you mean?"

"Were you kidding about my attractiveness? My capability? Or was it just my ability to make meaningful connections with others?"

He doesn't wait to hear the answer. Being friends with Sylvain is hard.


	2. maybe

He keeps to himself as the ball approaches. Sylvain seems mostly unaffected by his absence; if it weren’t for the way he keeps fidgeting during dinner, eyes flicking across the table, Felix wouldn’t even know he’s missed. Ingrid tries to draw him into conversation with stew and sparring, but it doesn’t work like it did when they were kids because nothing is the same. Dimitri says nothing, but Felix can tell he wants to help. _Worry about yourself_, he thinks, but it’s still a comfort to know there’s a human in there somewhere.

Mercedes hovers, as she’s wont to do, but Sylvain has never been the kind of problem anyone else can solve, because he’s not _really_ a problem, only a conundrum Felix might never understand.

Before he had come to Garreg Mach, before he had seen Sylvain every day whether he wanted to or not, Felix had been a stranger to desire. Feeling meant getting attached, and after Glenn had passed, he had decided that wasn’t for him.

Still, even he needs some form of human contact. No one approaches him, and, for the most part, he likes it that way, but at night he can’t sleep until he works himself to exhaustion, repeating the same basic combat forms until he passes out.

He’s markedly better at brawling now, and everyone notices. The professor pulls him to the side after class a week out from the ball, and he thinks that’s what she’s going to tell him, though she’d already praised him during class. He wants it, because when he doesn’t want people, he still craves respect for a job well done.

Professor Byleth, however, has never been the type to give her students what they want, but rather what they deserve.

“Even I need people to rely on,” she says when Sylvain finally lets the door shut. He doesn’t say anything, but he wonders how she sees him so clearly, how she understands him when the people he’s known his whole life find him inscrutable. The Sword of the Creator gleams at her side. though, and it’s nice to know they’re the same.

“Talk to him, Felix,” she continues, and he realizes he’s still not said a word. “Even Sylvain doesn’t always know what you’re thinking.”

And he wants to ask how she knows, but there’s only a handful of people he’ll even deign to talk to, and he’s painfully obvious about almost everything. Besides, the professor understands of all of them in a way that might be terrifying were he not the type to need it.

“Maybe,” he says instead, because he’s not certain he’s ready to hear the truth. If Sylvain doesn’t - can’t - understand him, he would rather not have to give up the most reliable thing he has.

If Sylvain doesn’t understand, he will be well and truly alone.

The professor lets him go - there’s nothing she can _make_ him do, and he appreciates that she doesn’t try - but the devil himself is standing right outside the door.

“I thought we had already established that you can’t hear anything through these doors,” Felix says as Sylvain scurries backward, looking off guard but not ashamed, and it aches, how easily _we_ comes to him when it’s the two of them.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t try.” He winks, ever roguish, but there’s something tentative about his gaze now, something small and fragile. “So, what did you talk about?”

“Nothing,” Felix says, and he hates the wounded quality in his own voice. “Just...nothing.”

“Fe,” Sylvain mutters, and the nickname startles him. It’s a relic of days long passed, when Felix was sensitive and cried at everything. Sylvain had always been the one to take care of him then, because Glenn was either busy or had no idea how. It had been abandoned somewhere during his ninth year, when he had learned about knighthood and responsibility, when he had developed a stoic facade. They only use it when something is wrong; he isn’t certain when Sylvain started feeling that way too.

“You can talk to me, Fe.” There’s so much hurt in the air it’s almost tangible.

“Tonight,” Felix promises, and he walks away before his heart spills out onto the floor in front of them both.

They’re silent at dinner, and it’s a testament to either the consideration or the thickheadedness of their classmates that no one asks about it. A girl comes over from the Golden Deer to flirt with Sylvain, but though he’s perfectly polite, the lack of interest is for once plainly shown in the flatness of his voice.

*Good*, says a petty part of him (says _all_ of him).

After dinner, they walk back, close enough to be considered together but further than they’ve ever really been in their life. Another girl reminds Sylvain of their post-dinner plans; Felix only lingers out of a morbid certainty he’s going to be cast aside, and if that happens, he wants to sear it into his brain.

“Sorry,” Sylvain says instead, all easy smile and expressive hands. “I have something I need to take care of.”

She protests, whispers something lewd in his ear based on the flush on the back of his neck, and suddenly Felix doesn’t want to stand on the sidelines anymore.

“Read the room. He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

The girl turns, expects Sylvain to defend her, but Felix can read his face from years of desperate practice, and he knows she’ll be met with nothing.

He’s still friendly, still smiling, but there’s nothing about the shrug of his shoulders that says he’s on her side, and Felix relishes it.

“He’s right, as always,” the bastard replies, and if it’s an attempt at mollifying the younger, it works all too well.

When they leave her behind, they walk a little closer, and if mutual disdain is what brings them together, Felix can privately admit he’d spend any amount of time among idiots to see the curl of his mouth.

“Where are we going?” Sylvain asks, and Felix knows this is why he doesn’t do these sorts of things, because he’s clueless and it’s all for nothing and it’s all too much-

Sylvain lays a tentative hand on his shoulder, and his head stops spinning.

“My room?” he asks, and yes, that works, because part of being strong is knowing when you’re outmatched, always having a backup plan, and in this case, the plan is to sound a tactical retreat to the safety of his own room if things go south.

“Sure,” Felix says instead.

Sylvain’s room is far cleaner than his own - _it has to be_, he thinks bitterly. His own is not cluttered per se, but busy, full of whetstones and half-buffed pieces of armor. It’s nice, almost, to have everything be exactly as it should, but then he remembers why he’s here and all such feelings evaporate.

Sylvain sits on the bed, and though he wants to be as far from his friend as possible, Felix can’t help but sit beside him, kicking off his shoes and folding his legs and arms around himself, a comfortable shield.

They sit in silence for a moment, neither one quite sure how to start, or at least that’s how it seems, because the heir to House Gautier, infamously silver-tongued playboy, is quiet, looking down at his hands as he fidgets. There are a thousand words that could ruin this fragile relationship, the only thing that kept Felix going after Glenn. Byleth is wrong, though: Felix Hugo Fraldarius has never needed people, and even if he has to give this up, he will survive, he will come out on the other side just fine, and he will continue on as though nothing has changed.

Even in his own mind, it sounds like a lie.

“What’s wrong, Fe?” Sylvain asks just as Felix says, “I hate you.”

It’s something close to funny, the shock that paints both their faces. It’s not what he meant to say, but it might be the closest to the truth they’ve been in a long time.

“Oh.” Sylvain slumps back against his pillow, back hitting the bed frame. He looks like he’s been struck stupid, and normally, Felix would delight in the visual - it’s always his friend who catches him off guard. This, however, is not the same, and he can’t taste victory when his best friend is making that face.

And now that he’s started, he’s not sure he can stop. “I hate how you make everyone pick up your slack, slack that you shouldn’t have because you’re _better_ than that. I hate that you make me put up with your womanizing ways, that you don’t respect that I have no interest. I hate that that’s all you ever have time for.”

“Felix-“

“I hate how stupid you are, I hate how perfect you are without even trying, and I hate that I don’t really mind any of it, I just-“

“Felix.” Sylvain catches his forearm in one broad hand, and he realizes with dim, distant horror, that he’s crying.

He swipes at his eyes with savage irritation, berating himself for letting so much skip. If his fingers dig into the exposed flesh of his palm hard enough to draw blood, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

“You wanted to know what was wrong, right?” he bites out, his voice brutal even to his own ears. “There it is, everything I feel in one horrible nutshell. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Then Sylvain is reeling him in, arms pulling him apart with practiced skill until he’s open and pressed against the redhead, arms securely looped around his waist as he buries his face in this other’s broad shoulder. It feels safer than solitude ever has, but Felix knows better than to trust the judgement of his own fragile emotions.

“I am,” Sylvain mutters against his hair. “All I’ve ever wanted from you is just to understand.”

Felix can’t help the way he flinches at that when it comes so close to all his private insecurities, but to his credit, Sylvain says nothing about it.

Instead he says, “I would never forget you, Felix,” soft and sweet, and the words are ones he’s said a thousand times to a thousand girls, but for all of Sylvain’s flaws, he would never lie to him, not about this. Something long dead kicks and flutters weakly back to life. He’s too relieved to remember to be defensive; for this moment, he can let himself be vulnerable.

“You better not,” he grumbles, but his voice is muffled by the folds of Sylvain’s uniform, and the other laughs so warm and bright that Felix has to blink away sunspots from his gaze. “I’d never forgive you.”

Sylvain pulls him back, and briefly, Felix wonders what he looks like, flushed from tears and the exertion of openness. “That goes for you as well,” he says, pairing the statement with his signature wink. “When you find yourself a girl you can actually tolerate, don’t go forgetting the guy who taught you all you need to know.”

Felix punches him square in the shoulder, and Sylvain laughs through the automatic wince.

“You’re an idiot of the highest degree.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain agrees, and everything feels a little closer to normal.

They sit in the stillness of evening for a while longer, but it’s familiar now, and even though Sylvain looks pensive, that’s really nothing new. Even if he’s the one who’s better with words, that doesn’t mean anything when they’re both do unpracticed with sincerity.

“I had something to tell you too,” he announces, and really, the only reason Felix is surprised is that he’s not just announcing it. A cautious Sylvain is true.

“Well?”

“I’ll save it for another time.” The smile Sylvain gifts him is true, tinged with melancholy that Felix keeps safe in what remains of his heart, jealously guarded like the treasure it is. “I’ve still gotta work on apologizing to you.”

“You never apologize.”

“I do when it matters.”

If Felix were a different kind of man, there would be a million ways to fall in love with Sylvain. Maybe that’s why he hates so many of the girls his friend attracts; when it comes down to it, there’s a lot to love about Sylvain. The Crest and the title are just extra.

“You don’t have to,” he says, and he means it, because if Sylvain changes, it should be for himself and not out of a sense of duty to Felix. Besides, Felix is stubborn. If someone is going to throw in the towel when it comes to the two of them, it won’t be him, no matter how he tries to convince himself otherwise. “Just...make time for me.”

It’s a painful admission to make, and Sylvain seems to appreciate that, because the always hard lines of his face soften as he takes Felix’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together.

“You’re my favorite person, Fe,” he says. “I’ll be here whenever you want me, and sometimes even when you don’t.”

“Shut up,” Felix grumbles, turning his face to hide the redness he can feel erupting there as his heart kicks again. “I hate you.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, the smile annoyingly evident in his smile. “I know.”


	3. almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh

Meeting Sylvain before the ball isn’t planned, at least not on Felix’s part. He thinks Ingrid might have had a hand in it, considering how meddlesome she is (but he’ll never say he appreciates it), and Mercedes as well, because there are about a dozen different accessories scattered across the once pristine sheets of his bed, and even his best friend looks a little rueful.

“What is this?” he seethes. He’s sweaty and tired and Byleth has kicked his ass ten ways from Sunday, so the last thing he needs is a fashion intervention. Besides, he’s never cared about style, or whatever it is that his classmates prattle over; he wants to flee to the no-nonsense sanctity of Ingrid’s room, but he has a sour feeling that she’s already become a casualty.

“Gotta look your best for all the girls you’ll be pulling tomorrow night, right?” Sylvain says, fingers idly picking at loose threads. “We’re allowed to get out of uniform, so we’ve really gotta make this count.”

“Since when am I complicit in your little schemes?”

“Since my best friend and I are back on speaking terms.” Sylvain’s smile is blinding. “I want to do this with you, Felix, and I want to do this right.”

_Oh_.

Even if he hates the whole idea, he can’t say no to Sylvain when he’s asking, when he’s reaching out a hand for him to grab onto. If that’s all it was he would still say yes, because really, isn’t that all he’s wanted since they got here?

He can admit that much, at least.

There’s something extra, though, something Felix would have to be indescribably cruel to ignore. They have a mere couple of months before they graduate, before life returns to the way it used to be before the monastery, before the professor, before he could walk all of twenty feet and see his best friend. Felix may hate his father, but the man is no Margrave Gautier.

“Alright,” he grumbles, and begins to unbutton his shirt.

Sylvain coughs in surprise. It’s not a noise Felix has ever heard him make before, but distantly, he thinks he might like to try again.

“What?”

Sylvain recovers far too quickly for his liking, though, and passes him a shirt that looks far more Lorenz’s style than his. “Nothing. Just surprised you’re going along with this.”

Felix shrugs. “You asked.”

He doesn’t quite understand the look he gets in return for that, something almost like awe, but he likes it. It’s far better than the coldness he sees when Sylvain is courting a bedmate, empty and worthless.

He doesn’t even have to pull the shirt all the on to know he hates it, loathes it with a fiery passion the boar world be proud of, but Sylvain still coos over him like he’s a figure of legend.

“Quit mocking me,” he mutters, but though there’s no real heat behind his words, Sylvain still frowns.

“You’re really handsome, Fe,” he says, and there’s a furrow between his brows that Felix has the absurd urge to smooth out. “I wish you could see yourself the way I do, because no one here can hold a candle to you.”

His heart thumps a steady _one two_ in his chest before he stomps it out. This has been a more common occurrence than he’d like to admit, but lines are used for a reason. When his traitorous body betrays him, he reminds himself that he is just practice for the real thing. If he thinks about the liquid warmth of Sylvain’s gaze after that, it’s only because his best friend has struck gold.

“That’s a good one,” he says, softer than he had intended. He shrugs out of the abomination he’s wearing and reaches for another one. “No wonder they all fall over themselves to get to you.”

Sylvain seems taken aback by this, eyes wide and wandering, but Felix isn’t quite sure why. As an outsider, it’s always seemed far too easy to tumble head over heels for the Gautier heir.

They settle on a rather plain shirt with silver thread embellishments. Felix wonders if Sylvain will tell him he looks like the moon; instead, he’s quiet, and that’s almost the same thing.

* * *

The Blue Lions idle around their classroom like professionals.

Felix would normally be content to slouch in the corner, scoffing at the restlessness of his classmates before a fight, but this time he’s chief among them, tugging at his collar with a snort that would put any Demonic Beast to shame. He’s been dodging the whims of Annette and Mercedes for fifteen minutes already, and he curses Sylvain to Ailell and back before the bastard shows up, insouciant as always.

“Felix, can I braid your hair?” Mercedes calls, but Felix is already marching toward his tardy friend, daggers shooting from his gaze.

This close, it looks like their clothes match, Sylvain the gold to his silver. That fact tears through him like a lightning bolt, but he won’t dissect that here, not with five pairs of eyes on them (he doesn’t count Dimitri, who’s been daydreaming about the professor since he got here).

Later, though, he knows he will examine it, look at this simple coincidence from every possible angle, and overthink it to death. Then he’ll tuck it away into the mental recess he’s dubbed _Sylvain Is Weird_ and forget about it forever.

Sylvain spins around like a madman, coming to a stop and posing in front of him. “Do you like our outfits?” he asks, winking cheekily.

_Damn_ him, it’s not a coincidence.

“I don’t give a damn about that, just make sure no one touches my hair.” It’s the same as always, he knows, a sloppily pulled together knot that somehow manages to remain intact throughout the course of the day, but he likes it that way. As genuinely nice as Mercedes is, he doesn’t want her touching him.

Sylvain gives him that strange look again, and this time, Felix is almost positive he’s being made fun of.

“You would look really nice with it braided,” he says softly, and Felix is almost sick enough of this song and dance to quit the field right now. Almost.

It must be the excitement of the night getting to him, because he finds himself saying, “You can do it sometime, if you want,” and Sylvain beams.

“That’s everyone, isn’t it?” he hears Dimitri ask, and then he claps his hands together with such force that he almost feels he’s being scolded.

It _is_ an effective method of getting everyone to shut up, so he’ll give the boar that.

“Your Highness, no offense, but I think I’d be better at giving a speech for this sort of occasion, don’t you?”

And Dimitri really must be an animal, because he’s stupid enough to let Sylvain say a few words.

“Alright, guys, the day is here!” The grin on his face is borderline manic, and Felix thinks he actually might be a little afraid. “You’ll never be as great as Felix and I, but go out there and get some ass anyway!”

Is it wrong to be flattered _and_ disgusted?

The atmosphere must be getting to Dimitri too, though, because he merely says, “Whatever Sylvain just said, do the opposite.”

They’re off, and Felix expects Sylvain to throw himself into the crowd - and by extension, Felix to the wolves - but he drapes an arm over his shoulder instead, smiling broadly.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking up to cock an eyebrow.

“I told you I wanted to do this with you, right?” The light of the chandeliers and hundreds of candles spark off the gold of his shirt, and Sylvain really does look like the sun. “I’m at least going to make sure you find a nice girl to dance with before I disappear.”

“That will take all night.”

“I don’t mind.”

Felix’s breath hitches in his throat, and he shrugs the arm off his shoulder. “Okay,” he mutters. “Just don’t come crying to me if you don’t have a good time.”

“I won’t.”

As it turns out, they only have to wait half an hour before someone gathers the courage to ask him to dance. Normally, he would said no and continued to sulk in the corner, but he wants to do right by Sylvain, wants him to have fun while he still can.

It doesn’t feel right, dancing with his nameless girl. He would have preferred dancing with someone he knew; that way, there would be no expectation of small talk and etiquette. Hell, he would have partnered with Dimitri, because taking shots at someone was far more natural than the grimace he tried to pass off as a smile.

“You’re very handsome,” this girl says, blinking up at him prettily.

He feels a little sick.

Luckily, the song comes to an end, and he can bow and make excuses. He’s done his part, and now that Sylvain doesn’t have to worry about him anymore, there’s no reason for him to stay.

He does, though, because Sylvain matched shirts with him, and because the professor smiles when Claude spins her out onto the floor. He may be a lot of things, but selfish is rarely one of them.

Time passes, and he’s coaxed onto the floor by Mercedes, Annette, and the professor for a dance before two hours have passed. The ball is still going strong, but he’s tired already. It seems a little ridiculous, considering the broad scope of his battlefield stamina, but social situations are another thing entirely.

He glances around, seeking Sylvain the way he always does in times like these, only to find him whisking yet another girl around the dance floor. Even if he doesn’t quite feel like smiling, seeing the gold of Sylvain wink at him from across the room settles something in him, and he leaves feeling mostly at peace.

He manages to remain undetected on the way to the Goddess Tower, feet taking him without any input from his mind. There’s no reason for him to be here, no tryst, no moonlit lover, and as he stares up at the expanse of metal and stone before him, he feels incredibly small and alone.

He turns around, ready to go back to his dorm and sleep away this strange ache the plagues him.

Sylvain is there.

He shouldn’t be surprised. It still scratches at him like a festering wound, the idea that Sylvain would promise forever to someone for a quick tumble, and if there’s any night for such nonsense, tonight is it. Sylvain is alone, however, no girl in sight, and that’s not something Felix really ever gets to see, not with prime opportunities like this.

“Felix?” Sylvain says, surprised like he’s not the one who snuck up behind _him_. “What are you doing here?”

Felix shrugs, mostly because he’s not really sure either, but also because he’s not sure he feels like talking to his best friend right now. “Heading back.”

There’s something raw about Sylvain’s expression here in the moonlight, and silver sparks against his face, a combination of the moon and Felix, five steps up. It tears at his insides, and he looks away, unable to bear the full weight of all of Sylvain’s light.

“Did you meet someone here?” Sylvain’s laugh is stilted, stuttering, and though Felix knows what that indicates, he’s not certain _why_. “You dog.”

“I don’t play with people’s hearts,” he replies instinctively, eyes cutting back to the redhead’s with acerbic sharpness. “If I promise someone forever, I’m going to mean it.”

“Is that so?” The bastard is breathless now, for reasons absolutely unfathomable to Felix. He hates the way it makes it stomach curl, dark with delicious heat, but he can’t look away, can’t shut him out. “Turns out I’m the same.”

“Go back to the ball, then, unless you’re waiting for her here.” Finally, he thinks he understands the inescapably loud beats of his heart, the bitterness that plagues the end of each one, but he won’t admit it, not even to himself. He’s a goddamn fool, that’s all, and no matter how much any of his classmates preach about honesty, that won’t help him here.

“I’d rather go with you,” he says, and his hand has flashed out, he’s bridged the gap between them, and he’s tugging Felix toward him until they’re a breath apart. He smiles softer than Felix ever could have imagined. “Where _were_ you going?”

Felix shrugs, taking a step back so he can look at Sylvain without drowning in the dizzying depths of his gaze. “My room.”

And as Sylvain leads him, warm hand encircling his wrist, Felix comes to the dangerous realization that he would follow his best friend anywhere.


	4. yes

Their walk back toward the dorms is quieter than Felix would have expected. He knows Sylvain is capable of reflection, capable of peace and comfort, but on a night like this, one filled with revelry and laughter, he can’t quite comprehend why his best friend is spending time with him. There are a lot of things he thinks are objectively great about himself, but there’s nothing when it comes to parties, nothing that would draw Sylvain’s fickle attention.

He’ll enjoy this while it lasts, though. Come tomorrow, he’ll go back to wielding a sword like it’s the only thing he can rely on, and Sylvain will flirt with every girl in the entire fucking monastery. Tonight, however, it’s just the two of them, and he’ll relish the thought of them side by side, two celestial bodies in the night.

When they get to his door and he pushes it open, it feels a lot like letting go.

They slip through like shadows, still silent save for the click of the door as Sylvain locks it.

“What are you doing?” he asks, tilting his head up to study Sylvain with more intensity than he usually allows himself.

He looks timid, almost, despite the crooked grin that settles naturally along the sharp lines of his face. “I want you all to myself, Fe.”

Felix can’t help the way he blushes at that, much as he wishes he could swallow all of this emotion down. He turns his face away, desperately looking for distraction in the pristine walls of his room. “Don’t practice lines on me. It’s not cute, and there’s no one here for you to impress.”

Sylvain takes his hand more gently than Felix has ever been handled in his life, weaving their fingers together like a tapestry. “I disagree,” he says, and every nerve in Felix’s body sparks to life. “You’re really the only person I want to impress.”

His breath hitches in his throat, but he manages to sit without being any more abrupt than he usually is, and he levels a cool glare at Sylvain. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I wish you’d stop. I would rather be doing anything else than be here listening to you spout bullshit.”

He knows what should come next - a barb that starts with _anything_ or an arm slung around his shoulder, accompanied by a whine - but Sylvain has never been easy to predict, and now is not the time for him to start. He sits beside Felix with all the tender care of the boy he had once been, the one who knew what to say when he got in trouble or Glenn trounced him in combat again. The moon brushes its light across the planes of his cheekbones and jaw, devastating and beautiful in the way only he can be, and Felix clenched his fist, desperately willing himself not to move, to betray.

“Remember when I said I had something to tell you?” Sylvain asks, and Felix faintly wonders why neither of them have let go despite the odd position the gesture puts them in, turning to meet each other head on.

“Yes,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse. Sylvain’s hand trembles in his own, and Felix can’t remember the last time he’s seen him falter like this.

“I love you.”

Felix wants to rage. He wants to snap, snarl, bare his teeth and call Sylvain a liar, but there’s honesty in his face that’s undeniable, and he’s frozen but for the blood rushing in his ears, the _one two three_ of his heartbeat picking up speed in his chest.

“I know it doesn’t make sense, me being who I am and being in stupid, overwhelming love with you, and I don’t even know if you have interest in _anyone_, much less guys, or, you know, _me_. You’re just so...you, and you always listen even if I’m being a dumbass, and you care about me even when I fuck up...There’s no one else who does that, you know? I don’t ask, but you’re there anyway.”

Sylvain starts to pull his hand away, but Felix clings to it like a lifelines. “Continue,” he whispers. “You owe me that much.”

Sun-baked, warm eyes study him, and whatever Sylvain finds must be encouraging, because he does.

“Felix, you make me feel like a person. I’ve spent the entirety of my life, the part that matters, with you, and I can’t-“

They’re both crying.

“I can’t imagine not getting to see you. I would rather renounce everything I am than give you up. It’s us forever, you know?”

And Felix wants to give in to temptation, but if he lets himself fall, he will never recover.

“Don’t lie,” he says, and he hates the broken way it comes out, like he’s choking on glass shards. “What changed so drastically over the past few days? You told me you’d promise a girl forever for a _kiss_. What makes this so different?”

“You’re not a girl-“

“So that makes it okay?” He feels like a dagger unsheathed, and he cuts without care for whose blood spills. “You promised _me_ forever, Sylvain. I would take a lifetime cleaning up after each other over most things, but this is the worst of all. How can I believe you love me when I’ve been this way my whole life?”

“Because I’ve loved you my whole life!” They’re both bleeding now, guts spilled on the carpet with only the moon to illuminate them.

“Have you?” Felix has been wrong; he is selfish and terrible, but he can’t stop the words from tumbling out. “How much did you love me when you chased skirts with little regard as to how I felt having my best friend ignore for conquests? How much did you love me when you drew me into those little schemes, playing with me the same way you played with them? How much did you love me when you made me feel like I was nothing?”

Sylvain looks like he’s been wrecked in the worst way possible, snot dripping from his nose and bawling. Felix doesn’t care; he cares so much he can scarcely breathe.

“I love you, Sylvain, but I’m...I can’t do this if I can’t believe you really want me.”

They both look disgusting, puffy eyes and streaked with fluids, hands digging into each other with desperate want, and Felix wants to bridge the gap, but he has no idea how.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, lips upturned in the worst smile Felix has ever seen - it’s so sincere. “You know I’m not the best with words. Can I show you instead?”

This is the worst idea either of them has ever had. Felix nods.

When Sylvain’s lips meet his, he can’t help the small noise that tears its way out of his throat, a sigh and a groan all at once. He’s never been one for fantasizing, never let himself feel anything of this sort, but in every tale Ashe and Ingrid have ever lent him, there is a moment like this when the world aligns and everything fits together. This is not like that.

It feels like coming home, like _Sylvain_, and that’s infinitely better.

Sylvain is more gentle than Felix ever could have expected. There’s none of the heat he’s notorious for, none of the hunger that’s had brothers and fathers chasing after him, calling for blood. His free hand comes up to tangle in the knot of Felix’s hair, tugging it loose with practiced ease, but when his fingers thread into the raven strands, they’re both singing for each other.

They part, sighing, and as much as Felix wants to protest, continue to keep up his guard, there is nowhere he’s ever felt more safe. If this falls apart, he will suffer the consequences, but right now, there’s nothing he can do but fall head over heels for Sylvain.

“That was disgusting,” he says, and Sylvain laughs, light wicking off in golden wires.

“Not an ideal first kiss, huh?” Sylvain replies, grinning so widely Felix can’t look away. “We can always try again.”

Felix feels his lips tug upward without his permission, and he squeezes Sylvain’s hand. “Be back here in an hour, or I’ll drag you out myself.”

“And you’re okay with this?” Despite all his flaws, Sylvain cares so goddamn much, and it sends a flush down Felix’s neck. “There’s so much to talk about, because you’re _right_. I’ve been stupid and jealous, and I’ll spend as much time as you need me to making it right. I don’t wanna rush this, Fe. You deserve better.”

“Idiot.” They’re still streaked with evidence of this conversation, the heartache that’s been pent up for years, but he still presses a kiss to Sylvain’s cheek and relishes the way he lights up. “We’ll still talk, but...we deserve this.”

Sylvain lights up and, heedless of the way they both look, the way they both feel, lays another kiss on his lips.

“I can’t say I’m not pleased.”

They finally let go, and with Sylvain so silver in the moonlight, Felix feels like they might have a future, like his best friend is finally his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is it! my first sylvix fic is done :( i had a bunch of fun writing it, and depending if y’all are interested, i might resurrect this w a sequel or smth
> 
> check out my other stuff/follow me on twitter @kingblaiddyd

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on twitter @kingblaiddyd for horrible memes and lots of sylvix


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